


Space

by lokiloo



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Disturbing Themes, Gen, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Post Reichenbach, Purple Prose, sherlock is scecretly touchy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-06
Updated: 2012-03-06
Packaged: 2017-11-01 13:29:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/357339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lokiloo/pseuds/lokiloo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock feels the pull at his back, feels the resistance that turns his feet to lead. Every step he takes leads him farther and farther away from London- from all her charms and flaws, all her beauty and horror and utter perfection. Sherlock finds himself staring to the west, to the east, to the ocean- he looks to where he knows she is, strong and steady and going on without him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Space

**Author's Note:**

> Distance not only gives nostalgia, but perspective, and maybe objectivity.  
> -Robert Morgan
> 
> (Can be viewed as a companion piece to my fic, Time.)

Since the events following his suicide, Sherlock had begun to measure his life not in hours or minutes, but instead on a kind of distance- distance to what, exactly, is always relative, so in its place one might be so bold as to say he bases it on Space.

The space between himself and his next informant.

The space between himself and the next target.

The space between this cold night and the next.

 

(There is another space he measures, though never out loud. He feels it though, feels it echo in his bones with every move he takes. Feels it nip at his heels, pull at his hand- he feels it wrap around his heart and constrict, like a python’s embrace.) 

 

Sherlock dreams of broken bones. Of falling towards a ground that rushes up, of screams echoing around his head like the residual buzz of a noise too loud. He dreams of watching himself fall and smash, of staring into John’s terror filled eyes. He dreams of reaching up and telling John it’s a trick, a farce. He dreams of watching John take his place.

 

The best way to hide is in plain sight.

-Sherlock cuts his hair, dies it red, wears hoodies and jeans.

The best way to hide is in plain sight.

-He walks the streets of Europe as a tourist, as an addict, as a business man, as a whore.

The best way to hide is in plain sight.

-He watches his prey as a raptor would, patient in the knowledge that his success would mean finally, finally going home.

 

(Time is something that can be measured, can be tracked. The space he feels is so much more than kilometers and oceans.)

 

Sherlock dreams of running. He has no shoes, and his feet leave trails of flowers where blood should stain. John runs next to him, but his trail is that of body parts. Sherlock tries to scream, tries to tell John to stop, but petals choke in his lungs, and John smiles with red teeth as they die together in a field of gore and flora.

 

Sherlock has business all over the continent. He tracks an informant to France. He watches a family in Saint Petersburg. He kills a man in Munich.

He kills many men in Munich.

Sherlock goes where Mycroft tells him too. He goes where his own mind does. Sherlock spends his days and nights stalking ghosts. He is a wraith, a monster that begins to haunt the underground; he becomes the ghost so many believe him to be.

Sherlock’s feet carry him where there are whispers- his feet lead him to the edges of a spider’s web, drag him across the land in search of a something he’s not sure he can defeat yet.

His feet try again and again to guide him to London. He resists.

(It grows harder every time.)

 

Sherlock dreams of walking a tightrope. He has no pole, no net- he is standing on one foot, about to fall, and John is beneath him with arms held wide open. There is a roar of colour around them. He is crying, ready to catch, always ready to catch, and Sherlock falls towards him and watches rain soak them both.

 

He has business in London.

He attempts to keep himself from doing anything rash, but he cannot stop himself in the end.

 

He leaves a message for Mycroft at his office.

He watches Lestrade enter Scotland Yard.

He looks as Mrs. Hudson visits her Neighbor down the road.

 

-He sees John entering a Tesco. 

 

(He wants to bridge the space between them. He wants to run his hands along John’s face- wants to count every line, every mark. He wants to press himself against him, crawl into his chest, bury himself inside John until there is no inch, no millimeter separating them.)

 

Sherlock walks away, feels the space between them grow.

 

Sherlock dreams of a house, cozy and cluttered. He dreams of tea sets and books, of stars at night and red dawns staining green fields yellow and orange. Sherlock dreams of waking to the sound of clanking pots, of spending his afternoons caring for beehives. He dreams of a gentle fire and a warmth that has very little to do with it. 

 

Sherlock feels the pull at his back, feels the resistance that turns his feet to stones, Every step he takes pilots him farther and farther away from London- from all her charms and flaws, all her beauty and horror and utter perfection. Sherlock finds himself staring to the west, to the east, to the ocean- he looks to where he knows she is, strong and steady and going on without him. He knows, of course, that the same applies to everyone he’d left as well. Lestrade must still be taking cases; Mycroft would still running the British Government, Mrs. Hudson would still be Mrs. Hudson.

John, though.

What would John be doing?

Would he still be working at the surgery? Had he moved out of Baker Street? Did he meet a women? Were they getting married? Was he married?

(Sherlock blames his nausea on his lack of food for the last week. It is both easier and harder to manage that way.)

 

Sherlock dreams of warm breath, of a smile framed by laugh lines. He dreams of a bed with a worn quilt and stains, of cold feet and a laugh felt against his back. He dreams of a thousand looks, of a million touches, of something he’d never realized he’d wanted, that he’d needed. He dreams of a broken mirror, his possible futures reflected amongst it.

 

He is done.

A year, almost to the day, and suddenly Sherlock is…done. There is no one left to rid, no one rearing to kill him, to kill his loved ones. He is now, and hopefully forever, finished with this charade.

The space between London is suddenly crippling him.

He is on a plane within the hour.

 

He finds Mycroft waiting by a car. His umbrella is tapping against the pavement.

“You’ve cut your hair,” Mycroft mentions, and to anyone else his voice would sound perfectly composed.

“Tried something new,” Sherlock glibs, and both of them pretend there’s no tremble.

There is a hug, one that is tight and bracing and entirely what they both need, though neither would, or will, ever admit that such a thing occurred.

 

Sherlock greats Molly with a tentative smile, and she returns it.

“Thank you,” He says, and he has never meant is so much in his life.

“It was nothing,” She assures him. She tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear, and Sherlock surprises her with his embrace.

“It most certainly was not,” he tells her, and she hugs him back.

 

Lestrade punches him. Sherlock had expected this, but he still underestimates the strength the DI could throw.

“You fucking prick!” He screams, and Sherlock is about to retort before he’s being hauled up and clasped to the Inspector’s chest.

“Don’t you ever, ever, do that again.” He grits out against Sherlock’s shorn head, and Sherlock nods mutely.

“I’ll try.” Sherlock manages, and Lestrade’s laugh is a sob.

 

Sherlock returns to Baker Street and meets Mrs. Hudson at the door.

“Oh dear,” She smiles and begins to cry, “I was wondering when you’d be back.”

Sherlock cannot stop his grin and he hugs her to his chest. “I don’t suppose I’d want to know how you knew?”

She laughs through her tears. “Oh, Sherlock, I never knew. I just hoped.”

 

Sherlock sits in front of the door, waiting. He’d moved his chair, allowing the perfect view of the door; to make sure He’d know the exact moment someone began to open it.

Sherlock had waited a long, long time for this. He’d waited, but it was ok now- the final space was closing in. In the light of everything he’d been through, time seemed so inconsequential.

 

(Sherlock had done nothing but wait, he’d felt. He could wait this little bit more.)

 

The door jingles.

Sherlock stands up.

John Watson stands before him.

Sherlock bridges the space.


End file.
